


Escape

by Nekoian



Series: Grand Design [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 05:17:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15988418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekoian/pseuds/Nekoian
Summary: While England obsesses over trying to get his brothers back to their own world (and away from Other-England) Northern Ireland is trying his best to cope with the stresses of the household. (set in Grand Design timeline featuring two sets of Brit bros)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the crossover of Grand Design where one set of British Brothers (Sewn on - Nekoian) and (Feel the Fear Moonlightens). Will both Northern Ireland's hit the town? Will Mr Featherstonehaugh ever stop washing his car? (With apology to Moonlighten if I didn't do a good job nUn;; I'm rusty...)
> 
> Note: Mr Featherstonehaugh is pronounced Fem-shaw.

If there’s one thing Northern Ireland hates, it’s tension; and there’s far too much of that pervading the large house right now. He takes careful note of how both the England’s make a point not to talk to each other when anyone else is near them. They seem to be of the mind that if nobody is in the room, then their bickering and fighting cannot be heard by anyone else. Northern Ireland isn’t sure Michael –that other…him- actually can hear anything, and the Other-Iceland is actively laying low. If there’s a second feeling Northern Ireland hates, it’s isolation and he’s starting to feel trapped in this big house, with his own England acting so surly, spending as much time as he can plotting a way to get them all back home. 

The door to the bedroom England is huddled in creaks slightly when Northern Ireland pushes it but England’s head doesn’t move. His eyes are glued to a book with no pictures on the cover, surrounded by neatly stacked paper, a good amount of has fallen loose onto the floor. Northern Ireland plucks a sheet up. Incoherent mess of circles and stars and squiggles; if there’s a meaning to them it’s lost to him. 

“Any luck?” Northern Ireland places the sheet back onto the pile at his brother’s side, finally, getting England’s head to snap upwards, eyebrows down-turned. He’s seen England seething before, often, but it never gets more pleasant. 

“Put that back where it was,” he points forcibly, “I won’t have any luck with you poking at everything!” 

“Sorry,” Northern Ireland rolls his eyes when his back is turned, setting the paper back –roughly- where he found it and frowning down at the chaos of paper –blank and lined, white and off-white, pencils and ink and one of them in crayon, “and you complain when MY room is a mess.” 

“This isn’t mess, it’s—“ England winces as he slams the book closed directly onto his finger, “do you not have anything better to do?” 

Not really, that’s the answer he’s started trying to avoid because when he says it England just looks even more peevish, but, he was exasperated with the Christmas telly weeks ago and the programming here is no different. He’s not allowed to go out on his own, the back yard is apparently too precious to play a game of one man footy in and apparently just walking around on these floors is far too loud for Other-England. He’s tried reading, but he’s had his fill of that too, reading is very hard work and gives him a headache after about a half hour. His phone has no bars and he’s been deemed ‘too young’ for computers –apparently.- 

He’d play some video games with Other-him and Iceland if he could FIND them. He has no idea where they fuck off too. Hanging around with Other-England is off the cards too. It’s creepy how much he resembles England, for one, for another Northern Ireland's charm has worn itself thin, and he feels like a bigger pest than usual. 

What’s a person to do when there’s nothing for a person to do? 

“I could help.” Northern Ireland knows, instinctively that that’s a huge lie, but it’s better than nothing. Maybe the offer will sweeten England’s mood at least. There’s a faint glimmer of a smile, which quickly fades away as England likely has the same thought process. Northern Ireland gets desperate, he only has one offer left that might entice England to stop being such a massive cock. “You want tea?” 

“No thank you North, maybe later.” 

Shit! 

“Not even a little one, like, with a biscuit or something?” 

A sigh pours from England’s mouth as though he’s the single most long-suffering being in existence; he shakes his head. Prying the book open and making it clear that he wants to be alone to read, “Do you want to get back home, North?” 

“Aye, course I do.” 

“Then I need to concentrate on this. It’s complicated work and I know your brothers won’t lift a finger to help plus you have no magic. None.” England makes an attempt to be sympathetic, “I know it’s difficult, but you need to be patient and let me work. Why don’t you go outside and burn off some of that energy?” 

“Other-you said the back was for flowers, not for football,” which he’d said in exactly the tone of voice North would have expected from his own brother, “it’s not like back home. I can’t do anything here!” 

“Well, why not try out the front? Just keep the ball away from the car best you can,” a sensible idea, though Northern Ireland is not convinced entirely that such logic would holdup in court. He supposes it’s better than nothing. A game of keep-up does sound good. 

“I guess that’s a good idea.” Northern Ireland shrugs, he can hear his own hesitation and finds it very foreign. 

The cheerful look England gives him does soothe his tattered nerves, however, even if it is just England taking pride in having all the answers, as usual. He’d certainly not reacted that way when Northern Ireland suggested that two England’s making attempts to work together might speed things up, -he’s in favour of a bit of haste even if it might mean them ripping one another to pieces- but all he’d gotten from that was a display of passive aggression from both England’s simultaneously, a non-responsive Michael and an Iceland who had looked like he was the one who’d just said something stupid instead of Northern Ireland and was terrified of getting the blame. 

The two England’s had gotten along so well at the start, but apparently isolation from more suitable targets (see: Scotland’s, Ireland's and Wales') had driven them to some form of cannibalism. Or something. How two people so similar can find so much to disagree about is absurd. From washing the dishes or making the meals or fighting about snoring and taking pot shots at one anothers ‘parenting’ and ‘family values.’ It’s all very tiring, the novelty of it has most certainly worn out. 

“Of course it’s a good idea, now be a good lad and run along.” England dismisses with a swish of his head, making a show of jotting something onto the sheet of paper with a Biro that’s doing far better at coping with the abuse than anyone could have asked. 

Northern Ireland relents, because he knows better, plus, England has given him a life line. He takes the stairs two at a time, forgetting to move quietly until half way and making amendments the best he can. He finds the football by the door. Perhaps a sign from Other-England that it is a suitable place to take it. With an experimental jiggle he discovers the door is unlocked, another promising sign. He steps out into the air and is immediately hit by how cold it still is. The ball leaves a dent in the light frost when he drops it and places a foot on it to stop it rolling away from him, with hands in pockets he guides it along, gentle taps from his foot until he finds a suitable place to pause and roll the dirty football onto his foot and balance it there. 

His breath turns to mist and his nose stings but it feels so good to move in the open. He taps the football into the air a little, trying to keep his footing on the slippery ground and pass the ball left to right and back again. Each time it gets a little higher. A light bump from his chest to stop it getting too far away from him, eventually he has to pull his hands from his pockets to help him shift his weight. He paws the ball along the ground as though evading having it taken off him by invisible feet, makes a quick turn of direction, far too quick, his foot seems to get torn out from under him, his back connecting with the icy ground; scratching his naked elbows and wetting his jeans and T-shirt. He lets out a yelp, which is followed by the horrifying sound of a football connecting hard with something metallic. 

The ball, it seems, has disappeared. 

\--

A frantic inspection of Other-England’s –beautiful- car reveals no signs of damage as far as Northern Ireland can see, no dents, no broken windows and no ice out of place. The supporting evidence being that the ball has also not been located anywhere near it. Because he cannot find it for the life of him. On the plus side, however, it can’t have done TOO much damage. How hard could he possibly kick it by falling on his arse? Northern ireland makes a sweep of the whole area then goes back to the place where he fell and studies the direction a little more carefully. Directly towards…

Mr Featherstonehaugh barges out of his door and begins to peer around his own garden, appears to locate the ball –shit- and looks directly at him, ‘is this yours?” it doesn’t sound like a question, more of an accusation, really. 

“Aye, I’m sorry. I was playing and—“ 

Mr Featherstonehaugh stomps his way around and enters Other-England’s garden, “you’ve put a massive dirty mark on my car. I only just washed it this morning!” His moustache twitches, aggravation. He’s gone slightly red. Nothing-new there then. Mr Featherstonehaugh turns red all the time. 

“I didn’t mean to, I slipped and I guess it got away from me,” Northern Ireland laughs nervously, although he does question why anyone would wash their car when it’s this cold out, stupid wanker that’s who, “super sorry, I can give it a clean if you like Mr Flemgaw.” 

‘What?” 

“Clean it, to make it clean again. Since I messed it up, Mr Farmbarn.” Northern Ireland always finds it difficult to avoid his amused smirk; it’s just always been their thing, a playful exchange between neighbours. 

“You’ll do no such thing!” Mr Featherstonehaugh tucks the ball under his arm and studies Northern Ireland the same way the family of a murder victim looks at the murderer just before they’re hooked into the electric chair, ‘I have half a mind to—“ 

The door to Other-England’s house opens, and they both turn to see Other-England leaning cautiously outside, clearly bemused by the disturbance. It’s only apparent which one it is because Northern Ireland remembers his own brother was wearing a stupid sweat jacket with American flags plastered all over it. This one is much more normal looking in a shirt and trousers. 

“Is something the matter, Mr Featherstonehaugh?” he says after his eyes roll between both figures and takes in as many details as he can. 

Northern Ireland remembers, belatedly, that this isn’t HIS Mr Featherstonehaugh. Enough Fear washes over him to make him shiver. Luckily for him he’s got a smear of muddy, ice cold dirt down the back of his clothing –Other-Wales’ clothing- and a slice taken out of the skin of both elbows which begin to throb slightly. 

“I should say so! I’ve never been so insulted in my life!” Mr Featherstonehaugh leaves Northern Ireland's side and marches up to England, pushing the ball into his grasp, “I believe this belongs to you, Mr Kirkland.” 

Other-England looks as baffled now as he did when he first came outside, glares softly at Northern Ireland; directing just enough attention towards him to say, “Oliver. Inside. Now.” 

Which Oliver complies with, head bowed and shoulders hunching defensively as he slouches his way into the hall, having the door closed behind him with an irritated THUD. He can hear the muffled sound of Mr Featherstonehaugh breaking into an angry tirade about the events of the day, likely of a few days ago when he’d happened to pause to chat to the old man, making his same silly edits to his name and knocking over one of his garden gnomes when he pushed it a little too hard with his toe…or the time before that when Northern Ireland had been forced to try and hop the fence to retrieve the same ball –Ireland kicked it over, the bastard, and refused to help get it back. Perhaps for the time after that when Michael had been charged to ‘keep Oliver busy, please’ and Northern Ireland had been given a dirty look by the old fart for laughing, shouting and swearing too much. 

Michael had begun to disappear more quickly soon after. 

Northern Ireland prods at the cut on one of his elbows he hisses in pain, then winces when he see’s the extent of the dirt that’s congealed into a wet mess down the back of Other-Wales’ oversized jeans. Folds his arms around himself to try and warm up, to shield himself from the flurry of accusations that are still pouring out of Mr Featherstonehaugh’s mouth. 

That isolated feeling constricts around him even harder. He feels small. Hates it. 

The amount of time it takes for Other-England and Mr Featherstonehaugh to part ways isn’t easy to say. But Other-England certainly doesn’t look happy when he strides inside. His jaw is tight, face red with emotion and his fingers curled into snarled fists. 

“I want you to go to your room. I’ll talk to your brother about this.” It’s obvious that he’s holding back his anger, as well as relishing the thought of telling England all about it. 

“But I—“ 

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Go upstairs and stay there. Quietly. Do not move a single muscle until I say so.” He points at the stairs and his eyebrows are down-turned, making Northern Ireland's throat ache slightly. This appears to make him look even guiltier as Other-England's jaw twists a little tighter. 

Northern Ireland can feel himself glaring, not wanting or meaning to. He covers he cuts on his arms with his fingers. He makes every effort to be quiet, but his feet don’t comply. He makes do by moving as quickly as he can, storming past Michael who sidesteps away from him like he’s a leper. Watching with interest then sidling downstairs. 

Northern Ireland’s hand rests on the handle to his designated room, pausing when he hears a slam from a cupboard and Other-England snarling a “bloody hell.” Just loud enough to hear, amidst a series of loud sighs. 

Something inside Northern Ireland breaks as he enters the bedroom. The unnamed thing shatters like a mirror that’s had a rock driven into it. 

He needs to get out of here.


	2. Chapter 2

Once, when Northern Ireland was very small he’d done something so terrible that the entire manor they’d shared at the time had become an awkward silent mess. He’d not understood, and the silence that now fills the room around him brings it all viscerally back to life.

There’d been a point where he didn’t understand death; it’s difficult to grasp the concept when you’re surrounded by supernatural immortals while also being one yourself. Death had been a very foreign concept to him back then. He isn’t sure he really understands it now, but he thinks he might be afraid of it. When he’d been old enough to have some hint of a mental capacity he’d managed to capture a mouse that had taken up residence in his room, he’d quickly learned that England hated having animals in the house, the hunting dogs lived outside with the cats, horses and swarm of sparrows that roosted on Wales’ balcony due to him sneaking them leftover corn and breadcrumbs.

Capturing the mouse had been the difficult part, it had bitten him when he’d caught it unawares (lured to a stop by corn and breadcrumbs) and once he had it the issue of what to do with a mouse when you had it wriggling in your hands and biting the shit out of you becomes a much bigger problem. Northern Ireland, in his infinite childish wisdom, had decided that keeping it in a tin under the floorboards where England couldn’t steal it was the obvious answer. Presenting the tiny corpse to his horrified brothers in order to ask what was going on with it had gotten him a scalped arse, a silent awkward household and, eventually, a brief rundown on what dying was and that all things, besides them, die. He’d been told that life is a brief and precious thing to everybody but themselves, who burn eternal and unchanging (and other such poetic nonsense) and that when things die they vanish forever into heaven just like the minister at the Sunday church had talked about.

It had taken a few years of making friends with humans, watching them age and wither, or get wiped out in wars. Seeing the telltale signs of mass death etched on his brother's skin or his own. For all that, his mind always goes back to that little brown rodent he’d inadvertently tortured to death so needlessly. How alone it must have felt trapped in that tiny tin box, as it struggled to escape for days on end, slowly starving until that precious little light went out.

England had told him once that death would arrive with them eventually, because it came to all things, that his own death might come sooner than the rest of his family because of the nature of his land and borders, and he still has nightmares where he is the mouse, Ireland is the tin box and time is the steadily depleting supply of air. Ready to snuff him out if he ever let go of England’s hand or stared too long at those strange stone memorials the humans make to remember their fallen lights. Would his brothers create a stone slab for him if he died? He’d read the history books and seen many other kingdoms and countries and never once seen a stone memorial like the ones the humans make. Only the humans remembered the dead land around him while England went blank over questions about what Northumbria was like or where the tomb was that held Pangaea. Northern Ireland suspects that he understands death better than England does, but isn’t proud of it.

The spare room of Other-England’s house feels as barren as a rusted tin can, and the house has fallen as silent. He can feel a familiar knot in his stomach that he tries to alleviate by pacing back and forth, his thumb bitten between his teeth and his other hand wrapped tight around the stone Scotland gave him. He doesn’t remember having it in his pocket but finding it there had been a small relief.

Does he deserve relief? He’d certainly not given any to the mouse, nor been able to help the many throngs of people who suffered because of his existence or to his brother now that he needs help getting them home. He’s bad, he decides again, as he often does. If he were a person (a real one) he’d be a bad one. 

A knock on the door snaps him to a stop, England pitches the door open and edges in, “did you kick a football at Featherstonehaughs car?”

“I slipped.”

“And make fun of him?”

“I guess so. Didn’t do it on purpose.” Northern Ireland stuffs his hands into his pockets and sits down on the floor, his back resting against the bed, the metal frame digs into his back.

“You’re bleeding,” England observes.

“England is mad at me, isn’t he?”

“I—“ England gives his head a shake and presses his fingers to his temple, “madder at me I think. It was my stupid idea to let you go outside in the first place.” England’s eyes are drawn to the horrifying knitted monster that sits on the chair at the far end of the room, he shudders at the sight of it, “Best to just stay in here, for now, stay out of his way.”

“Do you think I’m…’ Northern Ireland lets go of the rock and hugs his knees, making himself small, “have you found out how we can get home?”

“Not yet, soon.” England plops down beside him, taking a long hard stare out the window, “we should probably try and teach you some magic when this is all sorted out. It’s a family tradition.”

Northern Ireland bites hard on his tongue. He wants to ask questions. Can’t find his voice. Mice don’t have voices either.

“You’re filthy, you should change those clothes and shove them in the wash.” England takes a hold of the fabric of Northern Irelands T-shirt and studies it with a curled lip and frowning eyes, “and look at those scratches, can’t leave you alone for five minutes.” He titters to himself then clucks his tongue. “Look, just apologise to Mr Featherstonehaugh when you see him next, once we get home you can bother my neighbour all you want to. But until then you need to…stop being you, just a little bit. Can you do that for me?”

Northern Ireland nods.

“Then I’ll try my best to get us all out of this nonsense situation and away from this shitty place,” He sighs, “not even a word from your brothers. I always have to do everything around here. ”

Northern Ireland nods. He feels tired all of a sudden, yet knows from long hard experience that sleep will begin to evade him; insomnia will drive him mad with fatigue and boredom.

“Do you want me to get some plasters for your arms.” England takes hold of Northern Irelands wrist and raises an arm to get a better look, “I’m sure there’s a medicine box in this shit hole somewhere.”

“It’s fine.”

“Why did you go outside in nothing but a t-shirt?” he squints at the black shirt and leans a little closer, “what on earth is that t-shirt anyway?”

Northern Ireland looks at the logo emblazoned on his front, he’d been told this selection of clothes had been dragged out from the abandoned items belonging to Other-Wales. He hadn’t really thought about it when he put it on. All his borrowed clothing from the pile hadn’t been very interesting so he’d stopped looking at it before getting dressed in the morning. The shirt had clearly never been worn as the price label was still stuck in the back, he’s found that out after putting it on. Upon inspection, there’s a faded photo of some picture-perfect-pretty-boys with the neon words ‘TAKE THAT’ framing them on two sides.

“Perhaps Mr Featherstonehaugh was insulted by your terrible taste in music.” England grins to himself, “at any rate I get the feeling dinner will be ready soon, there was a great deal of smoke pluming from the oven. I think the batteries in his smoke alarm need changing.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat.”

Does he? Northern Irelands grip tightens around his legs, would he die if he didn’t eat anything from now on? Is the gurgling pain in his stomach the same as a human? How has he failed to grow taller despite being well nourished and well loved? Is his small fat body some reflection of his people, or has he somehow been the one ruining them?

England’s hand resting on his shoulder makes Northern Ireland twitch violently, making England’s hand shrink away from him.

“I bet if you offered to help cook the food here would be better. Couldn’t be much worse.”

“I tried to help and got told to piss off,” he paraphrases the shooing he’d received even though he is certain he was peeling that potato perfectly fine and could make gravy without horrible lumps in it.

“You did make a mess of the kitchen a few days ago.”

“I’d have cleaned it. I have a system!” he tuts “The shepherd's pie I made tasted just fine. Better than anything else we’ve had so far.”

England hums, “maybe ask permission next time,” he rises to his feet and stretches his skinny body; England looks younger in that stupid American flag branded fleece and jogging bottoms. The severe point of his chin has softened. It’s like he’s younger. A chilled sweat bursts across Northern Ireland’s skin, he can feel it trickle down his side and fade into his jeans.

“Do you think anything can happen to us while we’re here?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, magical stuff? Magic is apparently real, right?”

“I doubt it, I’d have noticed.” England’s face ages again, twisting slightly as his voice becomes moodier.

“Do you think…” Northern Ireland bites the inside of his mouth.

“Do I think what, North?

“Never mind.” Northern Ireland rests his forehead to his knee. He wants to ask if they might die here, become human beings now that they’re away from home. What if this strange dimension is the tin can. “I don’t want to be a mouse.”

“Then you should try and eat dinner, come on.” England strides towards the door “get changed and wash your arms off, after that maybe you an I can apologise to Mr Featherstonehaugh.”

Northern Ireland nods, but he can taste the future failure of that plan already, “fine, I’ll come down if you leave me alone.”

“That’s the spirit!” England flashes a smile, sometimes he seems like he’s got too many teeth in that stupid blonde head of his. When he exits and closes the door Northern Ireland can hear him sigh deeply and groan from the other side.

He watches the clouds drift by as he sits, unmotivated to get up, the sky is a perpetual sheet of winter grey, a drifting wall of shadows that don’t lend themselves to childish games of picking out shapes in them. His limbs feel leaden, his head like it’s full of condensation that wants to pour out of him but can’t find an outlet. With great effort, he strains himself upright and draws the curtains closed so he can pull on some new clothing. He selects a massive brown jumper and some grey-green trousers that need to be rolled up so he doesn’t trip over the hems. The bleeding of his arms has stopped, so he rubs the worst of the grime away with his discarded Take That shirt.

With that done he flops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, not knowing how long he lies there, hardly blinking, body twitching from pent-up energy. He realises that he wants a cigarette, or to get shit face drunk. Both. When he slips his hand into his trouser pocket he finds the small grey rock where he stuffed it, but his hand brushes something foreign, he thinks he might have accidentally located one of Other-Wales’ bank cards or a library card, but when he extracts it he discovers it’s his own provisional driving licence, his date of birth ludicrously reading ‘1922’ with no month or day attached. Why does he even have this? He flicks it aside and hears it bounce to the floor. Probably fell out of his phone case last time he had these trousers on. Makes sense, he decides as he ponders getting up, but he continues to watch a spider slowly crawl from one side of the room to the other then back again.

\--

When Northern Ireland arrives in the kitchen it’s only because he thought he heard his name being called –having forgotten that there’s another person here who shares it- he decides it must have been him being beckoned though as other-him is already at the dinner table, his phone held on his lap pretending not to be texting. Occasionally Iceland’s phone will vibrate and get a quick glance.

“Nice of you to show up,” Other-England says as he wafts smoke away from the oven with a tea towel while England pretends not to be watching the display through narrowed eyes and a clenched fist. He clearly disapproves of something but what that might be is unclear. Northern Irelands England might not burn everything to a crisp the way the alternative does, but he has been known to cause enough kitchen fires that Northern Ireland is certain it’s the fact the fire alarm isn’t sounding that’s bothering him. He thinks the minute difference in the Englands approach to cooking might lead to them being able to actually prepare a decent meal. Other-England appears mostly to focus far too much on the big picture and not pay attention to everything going on, his own has a hyper-focus, and will serve a perfectly made roast alongside vegetables that are still frozen at the core. Then again, he’s only been watching from the corner of his eye and wishing he could take over cooking for the whole fucking household.

Once Other-England has wrestled a tray from the oven and tossed it at the counter in a bid to stop his fingers getting their skin burned off he turns his attention on Other-Northern Ireland and frowns at him silently as though hoping to communicate via mental thought and irritation alone, his shrill bark of “North!” makes them both startle, and Other-Northern Irelands phone is skilfully stuffed into a jeans pocket, “could you get some plates out please?

When Other-England’s back is turned Other-North rolls his eyes and seems to assess whether moving his body or getting a second scolding is a worse punishment. His eyes drift towards Iceland who’s leaning ever so slightly towards him. 

“I can do it!” Northern Ireland offers, he knows he’s far too short to get to the plates they’ve been using and has his arse out of the seat ready to crawl onto the countertops to drag them down as he would at home 

“I think _you've_ done enough. Michael, get the plates!”

Northern Ireland shrinks back into his seat, while Other-North rises, too intimidated by his brother's tone to be lazy any longer. He opens the cupboard and plucks them out with ease with his stupidly long appendages. He delivers them to the counter then hangs around for a few seconds lest some other tasks be given to him.

England watches this with interest, the kind of interest that a spy might use to find a weakness in the enemies defences. He curls his fingers together on the table and smiles with the same false placidity that he uses against Scotland and Ireland when he’s about to make some cutting remark, “you never need to be asked to do that kind of thing, do you, North?”

Northern Ireland opens his mouth to disagree, but England’s pointedly held stare stops him from contradicting, he can only shrug and mumble in agreement. Usually, England does it all himself, but Northern Ireland will set the table if it clearly needs doing, or will just make dinner himself if he feels the urge to.

Other-England’s shoulders tense and Other-Northern Ireland takes a few steps back, glares at the table then retreats to dig out some glasses.

Iceland taps a few times at his phone before lightly nudging Northern Ireland on the arm, “hey, look at this stupid cat, isn’t it familiar?” he says, angling the video for Northern Ireland to look at, though he has to scoot closer. It’s a video of a cat fighting its own reflection in a mirror.

Northern Ireland can’t help his snort of laughter and has to fight to keep most of it down, “it looks almost like Viking.”

“Viking?” Iceland blinks up at him, pushing his platinum hair away from his face, head tilted in interest.

“My cat, he lives with Scotland so I guess he’s technically Scotlands cat. He has two. I think his neighbours are feeding them. Viking is, like, really small and brown and steals stuff and Bastard is really huge and ginger.” Northern Ireland pulls out his own phone and scrolls to his photos, pulling up an image of both cats staring out the window.

“That’s _Scotland’s_ garden.” Iceland’s voice shudders slightly.

“Course it is, he lives the—“ Northern Ireland’s mouth closes instinctively, he’s still not used to all this, “do you have any pets?”

Before Iceland can answer Other-England places a plate in front of him, “no phones at the table.”

“My phone doesn’t have any bars, though,” he holds it up as evidence, “I was just showing Iceland my cat. I hope Viking doesn’t miss me. I bet he’ll be really fat when we go home. He steals stuff from the fridge sometimes and we never told his neighbour…”

Other-England clears his throat and holds out his hand expectantly until both he and Iceland have handed their phones to him.

“You’re really going to take their phones off them?” England snipes, he feigns innocence when Other-England glowers at him, “mine isn’t working either, been trying to contact Wales all day. He’s good at making magical spells work.”

“I suppose _you_ need all the help you can get.” Other-England slides the phones away as he and Other-Northern Ireland sit down.

England’s mouth pinches shut.

“It’s a shame, really, if I needed help with magic I’d just ask Northern Ireland. MY Northern Ireland. I suppose you don’t have that luxury considering he has no magic.” Other-England smiles and gestures to the plates, “well, dig in.”

Northern Ireland looks to the plate, burnt sausages, vegetables that have had most of their colour boiled out of them and a lumpy grey goo that turns out to be mashed potato when he takes an experimental poke at it, “why is it grey?’ Northern Ireland asks over the sound of knives and forks hitting plates, “like, did you drop an ashtray in the pot or something?”

“It’s perfectly fine.” Other-England’s mouth curls at one edge, he jabs a fork into one of the sausages in the plate, causing it to splinter into two black and pink shards.

“Temperature was too high, you’ve only cooked the outside.” Northern Ireland prods the centre of the sausage, it feels much too cold, “better to leave it at moderate for a longer period. I used to do the same but Scotland taught me how to do it right.”

“Scotland did?” Other-England rolls his eyes, “Yes I’m sure Scotland did a great job with that. Please just eat your food before it gets cold." 

Even England looks a little hurt by the revelation that it was Scotland who managed to teach Northern Ireland anything.

“I have apple pie and custard for dessert, if you eat your food and be quiet you can have some.”

Northern Ireland taps his plate with the fork, he feels no great desire to eat, even if his other-self has already eaten two-thirds of the plate and seems set to eat anything else that might be left over.

“After this lovely dinner,” England makes almost no attempt to hide his sarcasm and other-England makes no effort to blatantly ignore him, “I thought North and I might go and apologise to that neighbour of yours, Flimflam, was it?” the choice of words makes Other-England visibly bristle.

“I think you’ve both done far too much harm already! I’ll never hear the end of the complaints now. Once all this is over you get to fuck off back wherever you came from I’ll be stuck picking up the pieces from the mess you’ve made.”

“I’m sure whatever happened will blow over within a week. Featherstonehaugh and Northern Ireland put up with each other just fine.”

“In your part of London maybe, in this neighbourhood, Northern Ireland isn’t a massive _pest_!”

England’s eyebrows dip dangerously, “in my part of London Northern Ireland actually speaks to me.”

This appears to be the end of the conversation as it lapses into furious silence again and Northern Ireland feels the weight of it pressing his shoulders so hard that the pressure of it might collapse a lung if he released the breath he’s holding in.

 _Pest_.

Like a rodent.

“I’m not hungry.” He says, pushing his plate away and standing up, “excuse me,” he doesn’t hear the responses as he exits the door and heads back to his room, closing the door behind him as gently as he can muster 

His eyes fall on the ID by his socked feet and his hand tightens around the rock Scotland gave him. Pest is he?

 _Pests_ escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your viewing pleasure, mWales' ugly T-shirt: https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/174873971/1993-take-that-vintage-a-million-love?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=boyzone&ref=sc_gallery-1-4&plkey=0586bcb7827c02f3a7d13f0ada9f7a54
> 
> Hoping this chapter is ok. Been poking at it for ages and full of doubts, especially about the OtherBrothers. With apology to Moonlighten if I messed up in any way, willing to make edits...Hope everyone is well.


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